It was a typical Sunday afternoon after church and we were having lunch at one of our favorite restaurants with two other families. We were getting together with them for the first time and I wanted to leave a good impression. Honestly, I just wanted to be a normal, fun family and prayed our kid’s wouldn’t have any meltdowns or throw any tantrums while we were there.
“Our baby died. And sometimes that makes me cry.”
My then 4 year old blurted out these words and my mind immediately panicked. Part of me was so proud of her and the other part swiftly went to damage control and how to make this as un-awkward as possible for the other people at the table. She spoke her truth. And that mom in me, the one that knows deep pain and loss, beamed with pride. She said the words I want to say, but don’t. I had just introduced the kids and my heart wanted to scream Dillon’s name. I wanted to say, “You don’t see him, but he is here with us, tucked snuggly into our hearts along with the two other babies that we never got to meet; they live in Heaven with him as well.”
This has been my constant struggle the past 3 years. I want to normalize grief, especially for my children. I want them to know that it's okay to talk about their brother or about being sad, because loss is a part of life. They will encounter grief throughout their lives and I want them to be able to move through it, instead of hiding behind the emotions of it. I tell them that God gave us feelings and tears to express pain and they don’t need to feel ashamed of crying, ever. I speak of Dillon often with others outside of our family, but usually I try to ease it into conversations, immensely aware of how I am perceived and am affecting the other person. I never want others to think that I mention my children in Heaven to get sympathy or to make it about me. I mention them because if I don’t, I am saying to myself that they didn’t exist, that their lives and my pain doesn’t matter. The weight of that thought burdens me greatly. I want others to see my heart and I have a desperate desire to be known and understood. I have found that by mentioning them I can be true to myself and my children, and ultimately it opens a door for God’s glory to be displayed.
The question, “How many children do you have?” has been written about often when it comes to grief and child loss. Typically, a person avoids the question or cringes when asked. I understand these feelings, because it brings the loss into the light and thus presents the dilemma I described above. Ultimately, I have found that it brings healing when I have the opportunity to speak Dillon’s name. That in and of itself is worth the moment of awkwardness 100 times over. I usually say something like, I have 6 children— 3 in Heaven and 3 here. That puts it in the other person’s court; if they want to ask further questions, I briefly explain that two were lost to miscarriage and our son, Dillon, was stillborn. Sometimes the conversation continues and I am comfortable talking about it; or if not, that is fine too. Because I have our 11 month old with me, I can say how grateful we are to have our little rainbow baby and how God has been gracious to our family. For some that ends the conversation. Like most people dealing with death, loss, and even faith, they have no idea what to say, avoid eye contact and turn away. However, I have been surprised at the amount of women that look me in the eyes, say they are sorry, and mention that they too have lost children to miscarriage. This opens the door for them to speak of their children instead of silently screaming that they existed. I would never wish the pain of losing a child on anyone, but I wonder if I will ever stumble upon a stranger that has also had a stillborn child or even a child with T18. I have made some of the most beautiful connections with people in some of the strangest places—waiting in the checkout line at TJMAXX, in the grocery store, at the playground or in the hospital waiting room. The more I share my story, the easier it becomes…it is now my “normal.”
There are several instances in particular that are ingrained in my heart and mind forever. I was at a homeschool conference discussing curricula options with one of the women working at a booth and she asked how many children I had. I said my typical response and she started tearing up and told me she had miscarried a few months prior. Her eyes told me that she so wanted and needed the opportunity to tell someone about the pain she was quietly struggling with. We shared a common faith and talked of our trust in God. I’m not sure how long we talked, but when I left the booth, I left as a friend. We hugged one of those hugs that says… “thank you for seeing me and for listening to my heart.” It was one of those truly beautiful moments where I could see God’s plan unfolding before me.
Another time, I was at the hospital, repeating my daughter’s newborn screening. I was checking in and talking with the staff about the number of children we all had. A man in his 50’s took me back to the lab area. Because I had mentioned Dillon, he felt comfortable enough to tell me that his son had died when he was 18 due to a “choking challenge.” His face lit up when I asked what his son’s name was. He spoke his name with such pride and remembrance. We talked about what a good name it was and how nice it is when we have the rare opportunity to speak our child’s name out loud to others. His loss happened 15 years ago, but he knew without hesitation that his son would have been 33 now. This is how it is to live as a loss parent…part of us is in the present and part of us is keeping track of how life would be “if only our children would have lived.” When we left, I thanked him for sharing his son with me and he said that our conversation made his whole day. It had made mine as well.
Through these everyday moments, the Lord is teaching me to have grace for others. We can’t know what nightmares people are currently living or the storms they have walked through. By being vulnerable and allowing others to see my grief, my realness, my pain, I have in turn experienced unexpected beauty through connections that would otherwise been missed. I pray that my children always feel comfortable enough to speak their truth and share their brother with others, as well as respect and value the stories they learn about other people’s lives. And bit by bit, perhaps grief will become normal. They will truly “see” other people, be seen and heard themselves, and will learn the beauty of giving grace to others. I also pray that I will have the courage of my daughter to bravely say, “Our baby died. And sometimes that makes me cry.”
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